


everything's alright, just hold on tight

by TeaCub90



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Platonic Kissing, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: Aziraphale sniffles, his eyes and nose thick with tears; shakes his head. Crowley leans over him, eyes as visible as ever behind those ridiculous glasses and narrowed, just as they were the first time they spoke, out in the desert, on the Garden wall, squinted against the sun and his own confusion.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	everything's alright, just hold on tight

**Author's Note:**

> So, I should probably write something more substantial than these h/c pieces - right now, I'm just not a well bunny and this is all I can give. I'm trying to get more involved in fandom again as I know I'm being negligent, but right now, I'm very, very tired and trying to cope with an anxiety disorder that's got a bit out of control. Thanks for bearing with me; hope to talk to you all soon.

* * *

The lights on the top floor of the bookshop blur above Aziraphale’s head – much like the blurred softness of the pillows, scattered beneath his own head – and he sniffles, breathless, gasping out little sobs; shifts and feels the tears pour down his cheeks, shuts his eyes to the onslaught of muffled ceiling and lights and even _noise._ Even when there’s none outside – with the streets being nearly empty and hardly anyone out and about save for the basic essentials, and exercise, the odd shout across the street or the cheerful-enough _ding!_ of a bicycle-ring in greeting; _BICYCLE, **BICYCLE,** I WANT TO RIDE MY –_

– it feels like street, after street, after street, right inside his head; of thoughts like people at liberty, running backwards and forwards, shouting things through loud-hailers, human-shaped thoughts and stream-of consciousness, beating up and down his 6000-year-old celestial brain.

_You should just go **right** ahead and swallow holy water, you pathetic excuse for an angel._

‘Angel?’ Crowley’s voice bats through, like a hand shifting pipe-smoke and the demon himself clatters up the stairs, a fork and a plate containing a slice of Aziraphale’s chocolate loaf in hand, half-devoured; his voice is muffled with the thick promise of the other half in his mouth. ‘So I know I said I’d just _watch_ you eating – and I did _not_ mean that to sound as kinky as it did, but my Freddie Mercury, angel, this one, it’s positively _sinful –’_

He cuts off abruptly, taking in Aziraphale – sprawled over the bed he’d actually miracled in for Crowley, when the pair of them admitted defeat approximately thirty-seven minutes after that phone-call and the demon came racing around his corner in his Bentley and the bookshop doors were thrust open for the first time in a month – and curses, promptly shoves the plate on the nearest stack of books (and Aziraphale can’t, he just _can’t_ find the strength to reprimand him for that, books are _books,_ not _coasters_ and he knows, he can feel in his bones, how wrong he feels, inside and out. How this whole thing has just caught up with him and left him completely unmoving; paralysed).

‘Angel,’ Crowley speeds towards him, towards the bed, clambers up onto it in one movement, his knees and legs spindly. ‘What – what is it? Was it something I said? Aziraphale?’

Aziraphale sniffles, his eyes and nose thick with tears; shakes his head. Crowley leans over him, eyes as visible as ever behind those ridiculous glasses and narrowed, just as they were the first time they spoke, out in the desert, on the Garden wall, squinted against the sun and his own confusion. His hair has grown out again; it’s much the same length it was the year both Adam and dear little Warlock were born and Aziraphale, in a similar manner to a man grasping for a lifeline, reaches up blindly, lets his fingers flit through the strands, the twist of contact against his fingertips almost a shock.

It’s a welcome one, though. They hadn’t hugged on arrival; they never do, somehow; always somehow giving one another space. They’ve only ever shaken hands, or sometimes held them. Crowley, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind the strange movement and just hovers over him, staring down at him, frozen in almost-anticipation. Sheltering. When he speaks, it’s soft.

‘What is it, angel?’

‘…I don’t know.’ More of a wooden mumble than anything, Aziraphale knows and he twists some of the demon’s hair around his fingers as he says it, absent-mindedly so. Crowley tightens his lips, pained – in much the same way Aziraphale imagined he himself pursed those lips when Michael walked into hell and poured out holy water into a dirty bathtub, barely managing to contain his horror that this was what they held in store for his demon – and makes a small noise; agitated yet gentle, reaches down to card his own hands through Aziraphale’s hair in turn, pushes some of it back from his forehead.

‘Doesn’t give me much to work with, angel.’ He doesn’t sound unkind, though, or even impatient. He just sounds sad. ‘What’s up?’

He doesn’t even seem to expect an answer straight away, is the thing; he just sits, a hand stroking through Aziraphale’s locks. Somewhere in the bookshop, there’s the sound of Queen – of course. Aziraphale allowed Crowley to commandeer the record-player, to let his friend’s own choice of song fill the silence that seemed to fall down on the shop after he hung up the phone, after Crowley wished him goodnight – and Aziraphale tilts his head, listens to the chords of _Somebody to Love,_ even as Crowley reaches out and takes his hand.

Aziraphale clings to the long, slim fingers with his stubby ones; can’t look Crowley in the eye even as he listens to Freddie Mercury’s melodic strains. Dear Freddie; taken too soon, far too soon, albeit with the most wonderful legacy left behind. They had grieved and grieved for him, put aside any lingering awkwardness about the holy water to drink their way through far too many bottles of Chardonnay; it had been rather reminiscent of grieving for poor dear Oscar Wilde all over again, of wondering if there was any base to this seemingly-bottomless pit of pain – except this time, Aziraphale wasn’t on his own to do it.

And it rather looks as though he’s not on his own now, either. His eyes blur again at that thought, foolishly so and more tears leak out from the corners of his eyes. Crowley makes a noise – perhaps discomforted, perhaps wounded and leans in, miracles up a handkerchief, mops him up.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aziraphale whispers finally; Crowley just shakes his head, leans down and kisses Aziraphale’s own, just above his brow, his voice low and soothing.

‘No, angel, no, no, no, no. It’s alright.’ Another kiss against his forehead, his free hand carding through his hair, all careful lips and comforting breath. ‘You’ll be alright, I promise. Sssh, sh, sh, sh.’

Aziraphale shuts his eyes to it – not to Crowley, but to the whole notion of it; the fact that he hurts so badly that he can’t even sit up straight. The fact that they have to do this at all; the fact that Crowley is reaching out to him; sitting with him; soothing him; doing his level best to make it all better again.

Then Crowley surprises him – surprises them both, perhaps – by lowering his head and laying it down upon Aziraphale’s chest, fitting himself around him with the most perfect of clicks with sharp cheekbones and an ear to his heart. Like they’re a pair of jigsaw puzzle pieces from the sets that Aziraphale attempted before he got restless and turned to the recipe books instead; his flaming red hair scattered across his fulsome chest.

_‘Gotta be big ‘cause you’ve got a big heart, angel,’ Crowley had slurred, somewhere between the third and fourth – fifth? – bottle of the Chardonnay; a mourning menace with torn jeans and long, rocker-like hair in a frantic, fragmented bun; Bohemian Rhapsody blaring out, noise-complaints be damned. Aziraphale had sat and nodded seriously; liked being an angel, liked having a big heart. Liked being nice, or at least, trying to be. Liked **Crowley** being nice, actually – should tell him sometime. Life was short, after all. He should tell Crowley sometime how really rather nice he was. _

He had baked and kneaded and stirred and occasionally peeled off the ceiling (no perfection without mistakes, after all) and done his best to keep all the other things out – and if he clicked his fingers occasionally so that his human neighbours in Soho would have enough milk to drink and bread to eat, or a good night’s dreamless sleep to dispel their anxieties – well, that’s nobody’s business but his own, thankyou.

But then – oh, but then. The anxious melancholy of London; the tedium and tears; suddenly far too much space to ask far too many questions that seemed to keep on leaking through the door, inch by inch, doubt by doubt, despite the best efforts to keep each and every one out – and Crowley, stepping through, looking brightly awake, and far too happy to be there – and _something_ broke.

Saying no to Crowley…fluttering and fussing over the phone, saying – once again – that no, they both had to abide by a certain set of rules; _no,_ Crowley couldn’t come and sit out another humane disaster with him, no matter how boring and tedious this particular one happened to be; **_no,_** they couldn’t support each other during this most nerve-wrecking of times, _no, Crowley, no, no_ – well. He considers, again, the Apocalypse and the sheer wonder of Crowley stopping time because Aziraphale asked him to, nothing more – and then he thinks of the way Crowley came strolling in today, as promised, with nothing less than a whole rack of wine to share.

 _Foolish Principality_. He hears it, somewhere behind the millennia of knowledge and experiences and sheer number of mistakes that only an angel like him could make and he sniffles, soft cotton wiping against his cheeks, watching Crowley watching him – before he straightens up and pats at him, like a particularly friendly sort of cat.

‘Budge up,’ he says, his voice very firm, but very gentle – gentle as his gaze and then, as quickly and as quietly as you please, he slips into the empty space next to Aziraphale, plants himself on his back, crosses his hands over his stomach. He needs to touch up his nail-polish, Aziraphale thinks distractedly, quietly shocked as he stares at him, at his hands, even as fresh tears pour down, out the corners of his eyes; he swallows a little, trying to clear – and cheer – himself up a bit. Crying is of course an exceedingly healthy thing for the humans to do, even if it is distressing to watch, and even if sometimes, there’s nothing that Aziraphale can do in particular, beyond offering hugs and kisses and words of comfort.

It’s not so good when you’re an angel; bungs you up something terrible, makes your miracles flicker and your wings withdraw and your hands fidget for an hour or two and on top of that, his eyes feel _extremely_ sore from crying; likely to be puffy for a while now, swollen with the sheer strain of it.

He watches, swallowing, as Crowley turns on his side to look at him, folding one arm behind his head and placing the other hand on his shoulder. They’re in an odd position; the bed is right next to the railings that look out onto the floor below; the only thing that’s keeping Aziraphale from falling down into the lower levels are the railings themselves. That, and Crowley next to him, curling a hand around his arm as if hoping to stop him from going too far, mentally as well as physically.

 _‘Everything’s alright, just hold on tight,’_ he croons, in perfect sync with Freddie on the player and that? _That_ makes Aziraphale giggle wetly, just a little. Crowley gives a friendly-sounding chuff at the sound, laying his head against the pillow to look at him.

‘Want to sleep, for a bit?’ he asks, with the innocent expression of one making a vaguely-tempting-but-not-really suggestion – and indeed, how tempting it does sound, Aziraphale considers with a sudden sigh, the exhaustion of it all seeming to plummet down upon him like a rather heavy weighted blanket.

…But he can’t just… _do_ that, can he? _Can_ he? He’s never really been much for sleeping – not when there’s so many books to read, and dishes to sample and he often hears the humans lamenting that they should read more, and feels rather, unangelically proud that he is able to do so – but perhaps now. _Perhaps._

‘I – that feels like rather giving in,’ he confesses, meeting Crowley’s eyes across the pillow. The demon gives a smile – a kind sort of smile – and rests his cheek on his shoulder, closes his eyes.

‘Yeah, it’s not, not _really._ Just…refuelling. You could only take a day or so, if it helps,’ he adds, eyes fixed on his, persuasive. ‘Give it a try.’

Aziraphale hums and watches as Crowley tucks into his side, slips an arm around his chest and settles – and just like that, he decides _well, what can it hurt,_ and wraps his arm around the demon’s shoulders; smiles then, despite himself, enjoying the warm weight of another body – of his closest and dearest friend, no less – beside his own. Keeping him company – even when he’s not exactly the best of fellows in return.

Still. Crowley doesn’t seem to mind; seems contented even and Aziraphale finds himself settling in turn, by proxy, even, something in him soothing at the contact, the kindness of Crowley’s touch. At least they have each other, he considers and strokes Crowley’s hair absent-mindedly, rubs his scalp – after a beat, kisses his hair and hears a happy rumble from the demon in return.

‘Get some rest, angel,’ he murmurs the order into Aziraphale’s waistcoat. ‘It’ll all be here when you wake up.’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale echoes, looking out at the shop. ‘Yes, I suppose it will. Oh no, dear, let me.’ Crowley has raised his hands, fingers poised in a click and Aziraphale puts his own palm over his fingers, stops him; makes the necessary snap himself that double-bolts the doors (front and back; no more thieves, thankyou); covers up the remaining cakes down below to keep them fresh; turns off the record-player and dims the lights.

And just like that, it’s quiet and they’re ensconced together in a bed, in the actually-rather-welcome dimness of the shop. Crowley is slumping against him, that arm slung over his torso and humming – a slow, sophisticated sort of groan that comes just before sleep.

‘Right then,’ Aziraphale manages; senses more than sees Crowley’s answering grin, his fingertips tapping out a beat on his chest. It makes Aziraphale smile and he squeezes the hand sprawled across his chest.

‘Goodnight, my dear,’ he murmurs, glad to say it properly this time; feels the squeeze of Crowley’s hand in his.

‘Goodnight, angel.’

*


End file.
